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On The Ancient Grapevine
​ A long time ago, thousands, maybe millions of early humans—hominids, you might say—lived in caves all around the earth. For the caveman, life was far more simple, yet more rough and mysterious than we can imagine today.
But eventually the time came when grunting, pointing and dirt drawings gave way to actual words, and cavemen began establishing languages. At some point, vocalizing and writing to each other became the latest and greatest way to communicate.
​ Once upon a time there passed a night just outside a series of densely populated caves, when two cavemen sat around their campfire long after the rest of their group had retired to their own caves for the night. It was another cold night, the fire popping and blazing and warm. The two men sitting around it enjoyed their abilities to speak despite the new vistas of complication and mystery such communication often presented.
​
​ “Fire’s nice tonight, innit?” remarked one of them. This caveman sometimes looked upon himself as "Frank".
​ “S’nice every night,” replied Frank's campfire companion. This fellow didn't particularly care to bear such a silly concept as a name, but if he had to choose one, it might as well be Hank.
​ “Something I been thinkin’ 'bout," Frank said. "What do you suppose all them white flickerin’ dots up in the sky might be?”
​ “Not a clue,” Hank said.
​ “Well, they flicker, see. Sort of like this here fire flickers. I wonder…”
​ “Oh, don’t say it.”
​ “What?” Frank had been trying to start up this chat for quite a few nights.
​ “You’re wondering if all them flickering dots in the sky are a whole buncha floating campfires!”
​ “Well," Frank said, "maybe. But what is fire?”
​ “What is fire.”
​ “Right, what is fire?”
​ “It’s a really hot day trapped in a pile of sticks,” Hank concluded.
“Right again, but it’s not solid like a rock or a club." Frank mused. "S’not fluid like water or piss. S’more … like air, ain’t it?”
​ “Air.” Hank mouthed the word, scratching his hairy head.
​ “Yeah.”
​ “Not sure I’m following you, mate.”
​ “Well," Frank elaborated, "you can pass a stick right through the flames. Just like air.”
“Right.”
“Or you can take a swipe at it—like this!—but you don’t hit a thing.”
“If you keep trying to punch the fire it’ll go out.”
“Look, all I’m tryin’ to say is—”
“I know what you’re saying." Hank waved a defiant hand grimed with dirt. "You’re saying fire is air, and that’s a load of rubbish. Frank my friend, I’d like to see you take a great big breath of fresh fire.”
“Point taken, point taken.”
“You come up with some strange ‘uns sometimes.”
“Back to all them flickerin’ dots...” Frank tilted his head back up in the direction of all those dots.
“I told you not to say it.”
“Why not?”
Hank sighed. “Because you know nothing!"
"I know nothing?"
"That's right what I said, you know nothing!"
Frank grinned. "But if I know that I know nothing, then I know something!"
Hank burst out laughing. "Give it a rest, Frank. Next you’ll go on about how there are men sitting around them campfires way up there in the sky, just like we are down here!”
“Don’t you wonder what all them flickerin’ dots might be?”
​ “I’ll admit, sometimes. But I don’t care to think about it.”
​“Well, why not?”
​ “Because asking what they are or how they got there can only lead to one answer, and I’ll tell ya right now Frank, I don’t think I’ll care for that answer.”
​ “But what answer??”
​ Hank stalled a second and then burst out: “That someone put ‘em there! Someone lit all those tiny fires way up in the sky!”
Frank's eyes sparkled. ​“Well … who?”
​ “Exactly! Who!”
​ “Blimey. Who.”
​ “Who, indeed.” Hank stroked his beard and pushed his long hair back. He felt he had been the victor of tonight's conversation.
But Frank would have more to say.
​ “Well, whoever it was would have to know magic. Not to mention how he gets ‘em all to slide left to right each night.”
​ “Yes," Hank agreed, "that’s a tricky bit right there.”
​ “And to work it so they all go out together in the morning.”
​ “That, too.”
​ “A fella who could do all that … what do you suppose he’d look like? Six arms and wings like a bird?”
​ “Maybe. Who’s to say he wouldn’t look like one of us? Lots of hair, nice beard.”
​ “So where is he and what’s he do all day?”
​ “Frank, if you could do magic, what would you do all day?”
​ “I’d stay in me cave and magic meself a nice bowl of buffalo gravy. And clean water. Never have to make the trek to the river again!”
​ “Balls to that," Hank said, "I’d magic my water into wine.”
​ Frank lit up at this notion. “Shrewd!”
​ “And you know if this Fire Guy can turn water into wine, then he can turn one fish into a hundred!”
​ “Hank, I like where you’re going with this!”
​ “And if you fall ill, he’ll come straight away to your cave and magic you alright again in the blink of an eye!”
​ “Brilliant!”
​ “Yeah.”
​ “Excellent!”
​ “Indeed.”
​ “But wait...”
​ “What?”
​“With a guy like that around," Frank mused, "don't you suppose men would start fightin over him? Ya know, just like Spike ‘n Harry the other night with the last of the buffalo bones?”​
​ “Nah, we’d be too happy to fight.”
​ “Well, say Harry needed water the same time you needed more fish, the same time I’m getting low on wine … guy like that would be in high demand.”
​ “We’d share him,” Hank said.
​ “Well, suppose we did get to fightin over him and it got ugly, and some hot blooded bloke got jealous and.. and.. and nailed him to a tree or summat!”
​ Now Hank was wide eyed. "Frank, that's 'bout the worst blinkin' thing I ever heard." He stroked his beard furiously.
Frank went on, "Maybe... maybe it's why no one ever sees him, mate. Fella’s prolly in hidin'.”
​ “Maybe..." Frank knew he had Hank's attention now. He whispered, "Suppose he’s already dead? Only his magic remains up in the sky, going on and on without him.”
​ “Holy smoke...” Hank had always been stubborn, but now he was finally sold. He looked up, stroking his beard and saw the stars in a new way.
​ He got to his feet. “Tell ya what I say, Franky my friend." He looked at Frank with orange and black hues on his face from the fire that Frank hadn't seen a moment earlier. "I say, come first light we tell the lot of 'em we figured out who put the fires in the sky. The magic fella could turn water into wine and the whole bit … how everywhere he went people followed him. And we never see him round cause some knucklehead killed him in a jealous rage.”
​ “That’s too much to remember!"
"No worries, mate," Hank said, "I got this."
"Suppose all we manage to do is enrage the lot of ‘em with the part about how the Fire Guy’s dead?”
​ “Nah. They’ll be too busy feelin’ sorry for the guy.”
​ Frank raised his bushy eyebrows. “Well stated, my friend."
"His magic was so strong he’s floating through the fire dots looking down on all of us.”
“Woah..."
There was silence for a moment. Then Frank said, "You know something?”
“Hm?”
“All them little white fires do look summat different now that we know what they are.”
​ “They do indeed.”
"Goodnight, Hank.”
​ “Night.”
And above, the tiny white fires continued to move left to right.
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